poem: geoff rickly only made it on the streets

television was his anti-hero; a thousand suicides is tolerable —
talent is its own expectation. sweaty brown-dim
thrashing basement, my girlfriend says you smashed her sideways
into the makeshift stage and I licked the pale red cuts
on her shoulder – clean, her head thrown back and zombie hot
eyemakeup, the malaise shaking shaking all of us
out the bass very loud and shaking the vans outside, parked too
close to the house (hide the sound). the television suits with
eunuch-desperation — we couldn’t make it
during the big moments that counted. my girlfriend was thrashed
into the stage but the birds that flew outside her turned
violent circles over their small heady song-worship geoff rickly
was touched by her on the ankle, he only made it
on the streets.